


Up In The Air On This One

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:39:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is kidnapped and Team Caffrey must come to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up In The Air On This One

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this story months ago, but just hadn't posted it yet. It will be interesting to see how the White Collar writers work out their plot next season.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Treon for her rapid turnaround on the beta aspect.

 

     Peter gets the dreaded call from the Marshals…Neal has cut his anklet. They eventually find it in the gutter of a busy street as if it were tossed from a passing car. The team watched traffic-cam footage of the area for hours, but finally came to the conclusion that the anklet was not discarded immediately after it had been cut. That meant that they didn’t have a time frame to compare to the footage. It’s the first dead end.

      Peter is in Neal’s apartment when the Marshals tear it apart. A carefully packed “go bag” is discovered in a hidden compartment in the wall. Inside are three perfect passports in three different names, all bearing Neal’s picture. There’s $30,000 in numerous denominations and credit cards to match the passport names. It makes Peter’s blood run cold because Neal would never leave without it.

      Driving away all doubt from Peter’s mind is a frantic call from Mozzie. Neal seems to have dropped off the face of the earth and his friend knows nothing of his whereabouts. Neither does June, who is also definitely worried. The possibilities are chilling Peter to the bone. There is no demand from whomever may have him. There is just a void.

      Even though the Bureau is treating this as a case of a felon violating work release, Peter has his team diligently backtracking through all recent cases that Peter and Neal have worked to see who may want payback. Nothing pops and it is frustrating and frightening. Is it possible that whomever took Neal has silenced him forever? Will they ever get him back, even if it is only his remains? Peter just can’t think that way. He wants to envision Neal on the Bridge of Sighs in Venice or a beach in Rio, not buried in a shallow grave.

      The days stretch into weeks and it does nothing to temper Peter’s trepidation. At first, he was continually in touch with Mozzie. The man had contacts on the street and underground beyond the FBI’s realm. He, too, came up empty-handed. When Mozzie’s phone went silent, Peter suspected that the paranoid little man had given up on Neal’s FBI handler. After all, their relationship was only predicated on Neal’s closeness to Peter. In frustration, Mozzie had ultimately made his feelings explicitly clear by claiming that the Bureau was a bunch of incompetent, impotent morons who couldn’t find their asses with both hands!

      The flurry of determined activity by the Bureau to bring Caffrey in eventually subsided when actual current white collar crimes took precedence. Peter did his job, but Neal was never far from his mind. Being up in the air was not closure. Things were never going to be the same for him. His team was well aware of his depression and could only hope that some fascinating new case would pull him out of his funk. One day, they got such a case, or at least an inkling of one.

      Over twenty years ago, in 1990, the most famous art theft in United States history took place in Boston, Massachusetts. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum was invaded by two thieves dressed as police officers. After subduing the museum security, they managed to steal thirteen paintings by various renowned masters in just 81 minutes from start to finish. The estimated worth of their haul was in excess of $500 million. Organized crime syndicates were always the main suspects at the time, but the case was sullied by a corrupt FBI agent in Boston. The Bureau was left with egg on their face and no tangible evidence.

      The art had never been recovered. Now one of the pieces, “The Storm on the Sea of Galilee” by Rembrandt had come on the market. At the time of the theft, a reward of $5,000,000 had been offered for its return, as well as for numerous other paintings. There were no takers. If this was the real deal and went up for auction now, the sky was the limit for its value considering the mystique of its history. The FBI would be able to do nothing because the statute of limitations for art theft is twenty years and that was now several years past.

      The art world abounded with skeptics, as well it should. No one was privy to the identity of the owner. The broker who represented the seller was sworn to keep his name a secret, citing the hounding of an oppressive and intrusive press. This just fueled fanatical speculation and it also piqued global interest. It was undoubtedly a ploy to enhance the frenzy that would most assuredly reach epic proportions by auction time.

      Because of the magnitude of the find, there would be a time lapse before the actual sale. The elite of worldwide wealth would need time to assemble, and the interval would also be necessary for expert after expert to examine and test the veracity of the art.

      Some of the authenticators were undecided, but were ultimately swayed by others of their esteemed colleagues who proclaimed that the piece was perfect. The density of each brushstroke, the subtlety of shading giving over to the burst of pure light, the perfect signature of Rembrandt found on the rudder of the boat……these were examples of pure genius artistic mastery. The aging of the oil coincided with the year of its origin from antiquity. Ultimately, the painting received the critics’ echoing stamp of approval.

      Something resonated like a tuning fork chime within Peter’s brain. The piece was quoted to be a perfect example of “genius artistic mastery.” He needed to see it for himself and put some demons to rest. Neal had always maintained that an artist, even when they are duplicating another’s creation, will always want to sign their work somewhere, somehow, even if only they know it is there. Remembering Neal’s initials on the bonds he had forged, Peter, accompanied by his team from White Collar, came armed with a black light.

      Jones drew the shades and Diana switched off the lights in the tiny room that housed the painting. When Peter ran the black light over “The Storm on the Sea of Galilee,” two tiny, intricate brush strokes phosphoresced in the brilliant white of the wave crashing onto the side of the boat. 

     “What are those?” Dianna was puzzled.

      Peter’s heart was in his throat as he put his theory to one final test. He took a tiny pocket mirror from his coat and positioned it at a right angle to the brush marks as Neal had done to show him Hagan’s initials on their first case. That Spanish Victory Bond seemed like a million years ago. He let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding as the initials NC were clearly displayed in the mirror.

      “Does this mean that Caffrey did this?” Jones said in awe.

      “Yes he did!” Peter was elated. It meant that Neal was alive and was sending him a message that only he would know. They could always read each other’s minds and Neal was counting on that.

      “Do you think he did this to taunt you, Peter?” Diana was loyal to a fault when it concerned her boss.

      “No, he did this to let me know he needs help.” Peter was now as sure of this as he was his wife’s love.

      Peter spoke with the powers above him at the Bureau. Maybe they didn’t buy the whole kidnap and coercion thing regarding Neal, but they gave Peter enough rope to either save Neal or ultimately hang him. They probably had visions of another scandal like the one experienced by their counterparts in Boston twenty odd years ago.

      It would be a game of parry and thrust on Peter’s part. First, he put considerable pressure on the broker for the identity of the art’s owner which was grudgingly provided. Jaime Arbona, the name that was given, didn’t ring any bells for Peter. He needed time to investigate. To that end, the broker, who most likely was not aware of the forgery, was not enlightened by the FBI of its dubious provenance. However, Peter was able to postpone the auction date by insisting that the FBI have their own experts authenticate the work.

      Then Peter ran the name Jaime Arbona through every data base the FBI had at its disposal. He even called in a favor at Homeland Security. The gist of what he found was that Arbona was a Mexican national with dual American citizenship. Although wealthy and powerful in his country, with a reputation of being involved in the drug trade, he seemed to be clean here in the States. He was not flagged on Homeland’s watch list, so they were no help.

      Determined not to be stymied, Peter decided to pull out all the stops and placed a tiny personal ad in every underground publication of which he was aware. Tech-savvy Jones then helped him post it in various iffy chat rooms and on clandestine internet bulletin boards. _“Havisham, call home. EB”_ was the cryptic message Then Peter began carrying his wife’s phone in his pocket day and night until Mozzie finally checked in when curiosity overcame his sense of paranoia.

      Peter was well aware of Mozzie’s, and his mysterious friend, Sally’s, extraordinary prowess for mining information from the ether. So he gave them their assignment…strip Jaime Arbona down to his skivvies. Peter desperately wished that he wouldn’t have to go off book in Mexico, but if wishes were horses, he’d own a whole stable of them by now.

      “Arcane” should have been the duo’s middle name because Mozzie and Sally did manage to glean some very interesting information. Arbona’s sister was married to a Native American who lived on the Acoma Pueblo Reservation approximately sixty miles from Albuquerque, New Mexico. Arbona himself had been staying there for several months. There were also some sightings on occasion of a young Caucasian male with dark hair being taken by car to the local hospital. Mozzie and Sally zeroed in on the house using Google Earth and printed a picture with exact coordinates.

      Now the proverbial “fly in the ointment” was that Federal authorities had no jurisdiction on Indian lands unless they had hard evidence of treason, a RICO violation, or a federal crime that was in progress like theft of the US mail. A suspicion that a wanted fugitive may be staying there wasn’t going to cut it.

      So Peter got creative, telling Reese Hughes that he felt slightly depressed with the Neal situation and needed to avail himself of a week's worth of vacation time to get his head on straight. Oddly enough, Diana came in with a note from her doctor, (Christie), saying that she needed a week of bed rest for a wrenched back. To top that, Jones also needed a week to help his mother in Maryland with legal issues surrounding a proposed move to assisted living.

      The trio stood in Hughes’ office looking like truants from school facing the principal. It was hard not to fidget under their boss’s scrutiny, but they were professionals, after all, and could pull it off. Hughes finally just shook his head slowly and said, “I don’t know whether to chew you out or cheer you on.”

      When he got no response from the three, he concluded with, “Now, everybody get out of my office and take care of business before I change my mind.” On that note, he gave them what could only be interpreted as a reverse double finger point. Peter had suspected for awhile that Reese had developed a grudging soft spot for their resident con artist.

      Peter and company took a commercial flight to Albuquerque. Mozzie would follow however Mozzie deemed to travel. Once there, Jones and Diana transformed into a convincing yuppie couple who rented a hot air balloon to celebrate their anniversary aloft in a gondola basket equipped with a hamper of edible delicacies and California wine. They would also be taking Peter along, well hidden beneath a plaid blanket in the well of that gondola.

      Approximately 60 miles west of Albuquerque, their balloon began losing altitude over the mesa, finally delicately descending and coming to rest not very far from the two-story adobe home belonging to an Arbona relative. Jones and Diana quickly scrambled out, giving themselves distance from something akin to a ticking bomb. They were met by two very able-bodied Native Americans coming out to investigate. Diana was in quite a dither.

      Dressed in pristine white shorts, halter top and sandals, she exclaimed, “My goodness, we just don’t know what happened with our balloon. One minute I was snapping pictures of the beautiful landscape, and the next I was just in fear for my life! I _thought_ my husband knew what he was doing.” She gave Jones an accusing glance.

      Jones chimed in, “I _do_ know how to pilot these things, honey, but something was definitely malfunctioning, so you can’t blame me. Just be thankful that I was proficient enough to get us down safely.”

     Their welcoming committee was less than welcoming, telling them they were on a private Indian reservation and would have to leave.

     “Now how do you purpose we do that?” asked Diana petulantly. She was working herself up into a real pout, just one step away from stamping her foot.

      Trying to stave off a full-blown snit, Jones quickly said, “Maybe you gentleman could give us a lift back to the city and we’ll tell the company who rented us this catastrophe to come out and get it off your property.”

      Reluctantly, the Indians agreed to give the troublesome pair a ride down to the highway where a bus traveled twice daily and could pick them up. This suited Diana and Jones perfectly, because they knew Mozzie was sitting in an arroyo with a van not far away. They had explicit orders from Peter to remain away from the reservation. This search and rescue operation was all on Peter. If things went pear-shaped, he didn’t want their careers to go down in flames as his undoubtedly would.

      Peter waited patiently as the desert air cooled. Checking his watch, he noted that around 2 AM all the lights had been extinguished in the adobe structure and the night was quiet. He marveled at the stupendous wealth of bright stars and full moon that he never got to enjoy in New York with its ambient city light. By the illumination of that night sky, he quietly left his hiding place and prowled the perimeter of the house. Wooden ladders stood against the wall under every window, as was the architectural custom with this type of dwelling. The windows were simple push out casements that were left ajar to alleviate the heat that had built up over the day. He could toss a coin or just pick one. He thought if Neal was here, they would most likely keep him in the rear of the structure. He had no basis for that assessment, just a gut feeling.

      Maybe Divine Providence was on Peter’s side, because the first window that he peered into after scaling a ladder made him catch his breath. Neal was lying on a small bed with a cast iron headboard to which his hands were zip tied. Peter wiggled through the opening and inched soundlessly towards his friend. Neal wore a white sleeveless undershirt and thin cotton pants, so Peter was able to take in his gaunt, pale frame. His hair was long and unkempt and his beard was scraggly. Peter put his hand over Neal’s mouth and bent close to his ear. Neal immediately startled and started to writhe, but quickly quieted when he heard Peter whisper, “Neal, it’s me. Calm down.”

      When Neal turned his head towards Peter, the wealth of emotion in those blue eyes spoke volumes and touched the agent’s heart. “You got my message,” he breathed. “I hoped you would.”

      Peter, using a blade, sliced through the plastic ties and gathered his CI in a bear hug. Neal melted into Peter and buried his face in the man’s chest, his shoulders shaking with emotion. When both men had gotten themselves under control, Peter motioned Neal toward the window. Peter pantomimed putting on shoes, but Neal shook his head and mimed empty hands. So, slowly and carefully, they made their way down the ladder as best as they could towards the rear of the property.

      It was slow going. Neal was in less than robust shape, leaning from time to time on Peter. When they were a distance from the structure, Peter informed him that the team was waiting for them approximately a quarter mile away. Neal was determined to make it even if on sheer adrenalin. He cautioned Peter as they traveled to watch the ground for rattlesnakes. “I was bitten the first week I was here when I tried to escape through the desert,” he solemnly informed his friend. Peter recalled the trips to the hospital that Mozzie had mentioned. This big, bad FBI agent really, really hated snakes, so he was ever vigilant after Neal’s warning.

      Jones and Diana, restless with the long wait, were prowling in ever-enlarging circles from the van. It was Jones who first spotted the pair and rushed to meet them. At this point, he practically had to carry Neal the rest of the way. Diana looked at Neal, gently punched him on the arm, and claimed that, surprisingly, she had missed him. Mozzie simply took in Neal’s appearance and said succinctly, “You look like hell, mon frère!” Then he turned away, surreptitiously took off his glasses and began furiously polishing the lenses through tightly squinted eyes that were suspiciously moist.

      They took Neal back to the motel where they were staying and had a local doctor do an assessment of his condition. He explained that Neal was dehydrated and malnourished, but all of his vital signs were good. There seemed to be no lasting effects from the snake bite which had been treated quickly at the local emergency room.

      Throughout the rest of the night, Neal told them the story of how he had been grabbed on a New York street and then flown on Arbona’s private jet to New Mexico. Arbona wanted what he deemed the “crème de le crème” to make his forgeries. The Rembrandt was the first of many that he had in store for the con artist to duplicate. When Neal refused, they starved him. After his ill-fated escape attempt, Arbona threatened to go after Peter. He said he had compatriots in the East that could get the job done. So, Neal produced the “The Storm on the Sea of Galilee” with a slight alteration in the hope that Peter would find it. Now he just wanted to go home. Peter’s heart swelled when Neal referred to New York as going home.

      So, Peter made some calls and local law enforcement would be arresting Arbona as soon as he set foot off of the reservation. With Neal’s testimony, he would be charged with kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, fraud and anything else they could come up with when they extradited him back to New York. The White Collar team and Neal would return as soon as they could procure transportation.

      After a welcome shower and shave, Neal was exhausted and almost asleep on one of the double beds in Peter’s room. With eyes at half-mast, he quietly asked his roommate, “When did you get the idea to examine the painting more closely, Peter? What made you suspicious?”

      Peter smiled, “I suppose it was when all the experts claimed it was a work of ‘genius artistic mastery’ that got me in the gut.”

      Neal smiled in return, “They really said that?”

      “Yeah, Buddy, they really said that!” Peter replied, but Neal was already asleep.                                                          

 


End file.
